


You Ain't Perfect, But You Are To Me

by satincolt



Series: Gamkar Ficlets [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Self-Hatred, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Day OTP Challenge, Day 2: cuddling somewhere</p><p>Karkat gets wrapped up in self-hatred, but Gamzee's there to talk (and tickle) him out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Ain't Perfect, But You Are To Me

The floor is freezing cold and the skin of the backs of your hands and ankles where your pants hiked up sticks to the metal tiling uncomfortably.  The ceiling of the lab is so far above you it’s almost invisible in the shadows, but the network of pipes and wires dangling from it is so dense it’s almost like a ceiling to the lab anyways.  The south half of the lab is lit with flickering fluorescents, but the north half is dimly illuminated only by the screens of the sleeping behemoth computers and the LEDs from the broken experiment tubes, blinking futile red warnings.

God, this lab is the worst place on this whole cursed meteor, but it’s the only place you belong. A cold, ugly setting for a gross piece of trash like yourself.  Rose and Dave’s bickering was getting too much for you so you retreated down here to try to find peace but instead all you found was your subconscious, waiting to ambush and brutally beat you to the floor.

So that’s where you are now. Getting brutally assaulted by every inadequacy you ever harbored.  Your coding and hacking skills suck—why did you think you could ever hold a candle to Sollux?  Also, why were you being such a disgusting blackflirt with him?  It’s obvious he never returned your advances; he just wanted to be friends, nothing darker than that.  But you kept on insulting him, trying to goad him into something he didn’t want. Gross.  You’re pathetic in the wrong ways, harboring pitchcrushes on people who _obviously_ just want something perfectly platonic.  That’s so you. Got to fuck up friendships with crushes. Yep, Captain Fucking-Up-His-Friendships-With-Misplaced-Crushes reporting for duty.

Then there’s that flushcrush with Terezi—you thought that would actually _go_ anywhere?  Fucking idiot! Ha!  She wouldn’t give you the time of day!  She’s way out of your league!  Too clever for you, you dumbass.  She always wanted to be a legislacerator, one of the smartest, most decorated intellectual positions in the entire empire, and what did you want to be? A threshecutioner. A meathead with sickles. You’re too stupid to even wield a sickle properly, much too shrimpy to warrant even a look from a proper threshecutioner.  Weasel-faced limpdick.

God damn, and your overconfident blustering landed you stuck on this hellhole of a rock with the _survivors_ , because you weren’t a good enough leader to stop people from fucking _murdering each other, good job, Karkat!_   So what are you, fearless, useless leader, doing now? Throwing yourself a fucking pity party on the grimy floor of a Skaian warlab.  Because you don’t deserve any better, nor are you strong enough to actually dust yourself the fuck off, snap out of it, and get on with your miserable life.  Ugh.

Soft footsteps come down the stairs by the lab door and you almost want to curl into a ball so whoever it is won’t see you, but you also kind of want them to find you so that they can reassure you.  Fucking disgraceful. The indecision keeps you starfished uncomfortably on the floor, eyes glazing over as you stare towards the ceiling. Your heart leaps in your chest and your stomach clenches, though, when those footsteps hesitate at the door of the lab, then softly pad over towards you.

“Best friend, what the motherfuck are you doin’ down on this here floor?” Gamzee asks softly, looking down at you.  

You avert your eyes, looking away into the far corner.  Your body decides it’s time to sit up and curl into a loose ball.

“Just wanted to have some peace and quiet,” you mumble.  Gamzee shifts his weight behind you.

“Well, if it’s that you’re wantin’, do you desire me to up and leave?” he asks. You’re quiet for a very long time while you think about your answer.  No would have him actually walk away—he’s not so perceptive to stay if you told him to go—but then he wouldn’t be able to comfort you.  He is your moirail, after all, and his words do count for something even if they are awkward and stumble-footed.  If you told him yes, you’d be such a desperate, clingy, over-needy ‘rail; how would he put up with you?

In the time it takes you to beat yourself up some more, Gamzee sits down beside you, arms touching as he mirrors your posture.  You know he’s looking at you just out of the corner of his eye; there’s no mistaking that intense indigo stare, but you can’t look at him; you’re such a piece of garbage. He’s nothing but patient with you and you’re _so_ demanding; it’s disgraceful.

“Best friend, I know somethin’s gettin’ to eatin’ at you, why don’t you go tell me all ‘bout it?” Gamzee bumps you gently with an elbow.

“It’s… personal…” you answer hesitantly, after an awkward pause.  You tighten your arms around your knees.  You don’t deserve this level of care.  You’re trash.

Gamzee sighs. Then he stands. For a second, you think he’s going to leave you there and you almost cry out “ _don’t leave me,_ ” inside your head, but then his hands are under your arms, hoisting you up.  He swings you into his arms in a single motion, damn his freaky strength but fuck if you don’t like it just a little bit.  Being manhandled like a ragdoll shouldn’t be this exhilarating.  It’s improper.

“Hey,” you protest weakly. “Where are you taking me, put me down!”

“Brother, I know you ain’t gonna get your talk on sittin’ your bony ass on the floor of that unmirthful lab, so I’m takin’ you where we can get our proper jam on.” Gamzee doesn’t look at you; instead he concentrates on negotiating the stairs and hopbeast-warren corridors. He bounces you lightly and hugs you tighter to his thin chest when you sigh and hesitantly rest your head against his shoulder.  It’s bony and it’s probably not that comfortable to have your head resting on it; you don’t want to inconvenience him.  He’s already gone this far out of his way to take care of you; you who so selfishly sat there and let him do this.  So selfish to be enjoying this, you don’t deserve this.  Don’t deserve to be held this carefully in your moirail’s arms, you deserve to be left to figure your own fucking stupid problems out without bothering other people.

Gamzee bumps a door open with one foot and you look into the room, lifting your head from his shoulder. So this is his hideout. It’s fucking freezing, deep in the depths of the meteor, but probably perfect for a highblood like him. He’s decorated the walls with—ugh—the blood of your friends, but you can’t see their heads or corpses anywhere, which is good, you guess.  There are a few piles scattered around the room.  One looks like blankets and clothes—there’s definitely one of Rose’s shirts on top of the pile, that’s not creepy at all—and another one is that goddamn horn pile.

And Gamzee’s heading straight for the horn pile. 

“No, do _not_ put me in that pile, you _know_ I hate it—stop it, you fuck—hey!”  Gamzee drops you a little harder than necessary into the horn pile. Metal digs into your sides and the pile honks sadly as you settle, glaring up at your scarecrow of a moirail. Gamzee grins at you; he’s entirely too amused by your discomfort.

“Come on, if you’re going to drop me in this fucking pile, you’ve got to get in here too,” you grouse, elbowing the horns meanly.  Gamzee chuckles and accedes, folding himself into the pile next to you. He lies down on his side, head propped on one hand, gazing at you through lidded eyes.  His free hand goes to trace the symbol on your sweater.

“So, a brother gonna tell me what’s got his red blood runnin’ blue with wicked sorrow?” Gamzee muses. You watch his thin, lilac-tinged fingers circle the upper half of your symbol a few times before taking a shaky breath.  You _definitely_ don’t deserve how kind and patient he’s being with you.

“I… I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”  You sigh heavily and look away from his fingers, trying to block out the feeling of them just barely skating over the spots along your ribs where your binder itches the worst. “I don’t want to bother you with my stupid wiggler insecurities.”

“Oh, hush up there motherfucker,” Gamzee says, trailing his fingers up to your hand where it’s tucked in your armpit for warmth.  “You’re worth every second of every day, hear?  Look at me, Karbro.”  He puts a cool hand on your cheek and for a second you let yourself relax into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, before he moves your head to look at him.

“Look at me, Karbro,” he repeats and this time you open your eyes and startle slightly when you find he’s looking at you very intently.  “If I didn’t think you weren’t worth a single motherfuckin’ second, a brother wouldn’t’a up and brought you down here, now would he? Palebro, you do so much for me, it’s only right I return the motherfuckin’ favor.  If you got ‘stupid wiggler insecurities,’ I’m gonna up and motherfuckin’ fight ‘em off ‘til you’re securer than motherfuckin’ Troll Fort Knox, you hear?”

You nod.

“Aight.” A slow grin softens Gamzee’s intense expression and he gives you a soft kiss on your forehead. “Now, up and tell me all ‘bout these insecurities a yours.  Lay ‘em on me and I’ll see if I can’t motherfuckin’ destroy ‘em for you.”

“God, I don’t even know where to start,” you take your hands out of your armpits to scrub your face, blinking heavily.  “My quadrants are a mess, I’m constantly fucking up friendships with the most inopportune crushes in the history of paradox space, I’ve done nothing but lead this whole group into ruin—I couldn’t even stop you and Eridan from killing people! I’m useless,” you sigh. As you talked, Gamzee took your right hand in his, tracing each finger and tendon like he was exploring a new world. When you stopped, he stopped and looked down at you.

“Well, that’s motherfuckin’ unfortunate you think so, brother, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t think you’re useless.”  Gamzee continues to almost worship your hand, both of you watching as he maps out its wrinkles and curves and planes.  “That ugly motherfuckin’ business with the killing and shit, that ain’t your problem. That was me and fishbro’s problems, so don’t you worry ‘bout that.  We got our own reasons.  The important thing is you all up and stopped me afore I went no further.”  Gamzee moves on to your other hand.  “You got all us through that motherfuckin’ game, it ain’t this motherfucker’s fault Jack Noir came and fucked up us winnin’, so don’t you worry on that.”

You sigh heavily, lacing your fingers with Gamzee’s.  He rubs his thumb over yours and leans in to press his cheek against your head. When he talks, you feel his words buzz down through your horns and skull. 

“Quadrants are motherfuckin’ hard, Karbro,” he chuckles.  “Lotta us don’t got nobody in any one a our squares, ‘cept you got me just like I got you.  If you’re worryin’ on a flushcrush or somethin’, it’ll all work out.  I don’t got the means to say how and why or when, but it’ll motherfuckin’ work out.  Maybe you’ll end up with that motherfucker in the reddest quadrant and it’ll be fuckin’ bliss, or maybe you won’t and you’ll up and find some other motherfucker to get your red on with.  Miracles got a way of workin’ themselves out that way and sometimes bro, you just gotta chill. You can’t be up and wastin’ half your little life worryin’ ‘bout things you really got no control over.”

“Hmm,” you hum, and nuzzle a little bit closer to Gamzee.  His low, raspy voice is comforting almost like sopor.  He chuckles and pulls you in to him, shifting so that you’re lying half on top of him, his arms encircling you and your head tucked under his chin. 

For a while, you just sit like that.  Gamzee’s a comforting sort of cool, not biting or clammy, just solidly cool in a way that pulls all that hot, infectious hate out of your body.  You lean back against him, pressing up against his rumblespheres. The skinny fuck never had to wear a binder, but he knows right where you like to be scratched and _oh there he goes_ , sliding a hand up under your sweater and scratching those itches right under the band.  You melt a little bit.  A warbling purr works its way out of your thorax and your moirail moves his hand just over your pump biscuit, resting it there to feel the beat of it. You press a lazy kiss to his Adam’s apple, and he starts up his gravelly purr too.

“Anythin’ else botherin’ you, my most miraculous brother?” Gamzee asks softly, voice more warbly than usual with his purr.  You consider his question slowly for a little bit, watching as he pushes your sleeves up to your elbows and tickles the soft insides of your forearms.  You giggle softly and push your shoulder into him, redoubling your purring.  God damn, when did he get so good at this?

“I hate myself a lot,” you say softly, almost dreamily, preoccupied with how good your moirail’s cool hands feel as they roam in a pale way.  It takes Gamzee a second to process that statement—it seems he’s as blissed-out as you are—but the second he does, he pulls you tight to him and flips you around suddenly.

The next thing you know, you’re lying flat on the horn pile and Gamzee’s sitting on your hips, looking down at you with the most concerned expression you’ve ever seen him wear, looking like a kicked mewbeast with his huge purple eyes.

“Brother, don’t say that,” he says imploringly.  He pushes your sweater up a little, so that his hands can reach your stomach. “You got no reason to be hatin’ on yourself.  You ain’t gotta try and fill a black quadrant with yourself, motherfucker.”  He tickles your stomach, trailing his fingers across your skin in aimless swirling patterns that make you shiver, but his eyes never leave yours.  “I pity you so hard, Karbro, and I motherfuckin’ know you.  There ain’t no reason you should hate yourself.  I look at you and I see a motherfuckin’ fine troll.  Yeah, you ain’t perfect, but you are to me. You done and made some mistakes, but we all have.  We’re all only fuckin’ kids. You got no right to be so hard on yourself.  You ain’t even the worst!”

At that, you reach a hand up and cup Gamzee’s cheek.  He closes his eyes and leans into your hand, stilling his for a moment. Then he turns and kisses the palm of your hand.  He puts a hand over yours and kisses all your fingertips, nuzzling into your touch until you giggle. Then it hits you. He’s right.  You gasp and it feels like seventeen tons of weight are lifted off your chest.  Gamzee gives you a bemused little smile.

“C’mere,” you growl, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. He comes willingly; his cool, soft lips press against yours and pale pink pity rushes through your system like a shot to the bloodpusher.  He smells like powder, mint, and sugar as you open the kiss, breathing in his scent like it’s bliss.  His hands, forgotten on your stomach, slide up higher and scratch your itchy spots. Your purr redoubles and he catches your bottom lip, sucking on it lightly.  His fingers travel to your grubscars and you laugh into his mouth; he kisses you harder and tickles you mercilessly until you push on his shoulders breathlessly.

Gamzee leans back just a little bit, so you can see his whole face:  his soft, loopy smile, the way his jewel-purple eyes crinkle just a little bit, the lilac blush that just barely comes through the white paint on his cheeks. You reach up and pap both his cheeks; he takes his hands out of your sweater and does the same.

“Pale for you, Karkat,” he breathes.

“Pale for you too, Gamzee.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was super therapeutic to write because I've been having insecurities a lot like Karkat's lately; I guess I just need someone to come cuddle and kiss me, but cotton-candy sweet-and-fluffy gamkar always works too!


End file.
